Pocho Quotes

“Mamá, do you know what happens to me when I read? All those hours that I sit, as you sometimes say, ‘ruining my eyes’? If I do ruin them, it would be worth it, for I do not need eyes where I go then. I travel, Mamá. I travel all over the world, and sometimes out of this whole universe, and I go back in time and again forward. I do not know I am here, and I do not care.”
― José Antonio Villareal, Pocho

“Look, little son," she said. "Many times I do not answer you when you ask me things, and other times I simply talk about something else. Sometimes this is because you ask things that you and I should not be talking about, but most of the time it is because I am ashamed that I do not know what you ask. You see, we are simple people, your father and I. We did not have the education because we came from the poorest class of people in Mexico...We cannot teach you the things that you want us to teach you. And I am deeply ashamed that we are going to fail in a great responsibility - we cannot guide you, we cannot select your reading for you, we cannot even talk to you in your own language.

"No, let me finish telling you. Already I can see that books are your life. We cannot help you, and soon we will not even be able to encourage you, because you will be obliged to work. We could not afford to spare you to go to school even if there was a way for you to do it, and there is a great sadness in our hearts.”
― José Antonio Villareal, Pocho

“Lettuce harvests in Salinas, melons in Brawley, grapes in Parlier, oranges in Ontario, cotton in Firebaugh -- and, finally, Santa Clara, the prune country. And because this place was pleasing to the eye, or because they were tired of their endless migration, Juan Rubio and his wife settled here to raise their children. And, remembering his country, Juan thought that his distant cousin, the great General Zapata, had been right when, in speaking of Juan, he once said to Villa, 'He will go far, that relative of mine.'

Now this man who had lived by the gun all his adult life would sit on his haunches under the prune trees, rubbing his sore knees, and think, Next year we will have enough money and we will return to our country. But deep within he knew he was one of the lost ones. And as the years passed him by and his children multiplied and grew, the chant increased in volume and rate until it became a staccato NEXT YEAR! NEXT YEAR!

And the chains were incrementally heavier on his heart.”
― José Antonio Villareal, Pocho

“As he walked along the crowded streets, he almost wished for the old days, and carelessly wondered how many men he had killed here.”
― José Antonio Villareal, Pocho